


If You Were—If I Could

by Impractical Beekeeping (Impractical_Beekeeping)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, It's a bit creepy, M/M, with physiology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impractical_Beekeeping/pseuds/Impractical%20Beekeeping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only speculation. Because he won't. But if he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Were—If I Could

Of course, I know, you’re not made that way. Something in the brain, perhaps. Or probably, yes, the problem is me. Because I’m not a person who someone should—no.

Let us suppose, though, just once, that you were. That the terms I’d request weren’t abhorrent to you. That it wouldn’t require we were anyone else; that the things people said were not hurtful but true:

I don’t think I would speak. As the words left my mouth, I’d see them go wrong. Twisting. Falling. So.

I could stand behind you, silently. You’d be...seated, I think. Your head resting against the back of your chair. And it would be dark, with just one lamp switched on.

I’d stand behind you, and you’d know I was there, quiet as I was. But you’d be looking at something else, I think. A book, perhaps. Certainly not the television, because the flickering glow would make it hard for me to concentrate. And the sound. I think the sound would be too jarring.

You’re reading a book, rather slowly, I think, and perhaps it’s something that moves you. Then I can imagine your face, shifting as you go. Tiny muscles catching and releasing around your eyes, your mouth. The lines and shapes that make you so interesting. I know them rather well.

I’m standing behind you now, and, very slowly...over the course of minutes—how many would be best? Perhaps ten, or fifteen, or because I feel contrary, twelve—I’ll stretch my hand out, ever so slowly, and place it on the back of your chair. And I’ll leave it there, letting your atoms adjust to another presence, a subtle difference in polarity caused by their proximity to mine. 

We could be something else, then. We could recombine.

I’ll stand there, and I’ll be careful to breathe at a reasonable rate—12 breaths per minute will do nicely, if it can be managed. I’ll manage. I’ll breathe, and I think, very slowly, match my breath to yours. It won’t be easy, as our metabolic rates are not the same, but for you, of course, I’ll try.

And here’s where things become more problematic, because I’m not sure now what would be best. My hand...perhaps I’d slowly let it touch your hair. And what I don’t know, now, is if like me, you’d be alarmed, or if, like you—if, as you _do,_ you’d make the best of it somehow. If you let me, then, if you didn’t startle, I think I’d run my fingers down, over the rough ends and the silky shafts to the point where the follicles erupt from your scalp. And it would feel warm against me; I’m often so cold. I would sink my fingers down and through and over your hair, very slowly, applying increasing pressure, and maybe, then you wouldn’t mind.  

Perhaps you’d sink back further, and relax your grip on the book in your hands, letting the pages fall away from the place where you were reading. And perhaps, over a time, I’d know your eyes were closed. And because I’d want to verify that, perhaps I’d run my fingers down to the slight indentation in your temple—where I think I’d momentarily be distracted by your pulse, very faint and perhaps very slow—and if I could, I’d slide them over to the soft folded corner of your eye. And perhaps I’d rest one finger there for a moment, considering what it would be like to feel the slight sandpaper of your cheek. 

I think it would be strange, but because I’m nearly there, I would continue, down your face in tiny increments. And I’d like to think your mouth will not be set in a thin line, nor turned down at the corner, but that your lips are soft and slightly parted. But I wouldn’t touch them here; instead, I’d go on, down to the hinge of your jaw, which is square and rounded at the same time. I’d slide my fingers down, just to the point where your pulse is quite strong beneath your skin. And I’d like to think it has changed since I last measured; very little, perhaps, but here I’d have the patience to make certain. 

And if I thought it might be fine, I’d stroke down your sternocleidomastoid to your collar: cotton, clean, and slightly furred with wear. Space permitting, I’d insinuate my index finger  just beneath it, and rest it in the hollow just before your clavicle begins. 

And still you would not speak, because—because it wouldn’t work, that’s all. But I’d like to think, perhaps, you’d sigh. 

You’d sigh, drop your chin against my hand. And maybe, then, it would be fine for me to place my other hand just over the place where the cicatrice lies, twisting your skin beneath your shirt. And I hope—I hope, but can’t be sure—you wouldn’t mind that much at all. But I wouldn’t leave it there too long.

And if this were to work, I think, I’d fold myself beside your chair. My arms are long, and so I’ll move without the need to change things much. I’d kneel beside you, hand still tucked inside your shirt, against your throat, your chin still pressing on my skin. And when my face is close to yours, perhaps your eyes would open then. I’d watch your pupils slowly change and note where your eyes are blue and brown, the radial furrows deep and dark. I’d like to think they change for me—let us assume here that they do.

And in itself, this isn’t strange, because, of course we often stare. My hand’s against your face, we’re close...I’ll set my thumb along your mouth.

And you have not said anything, but watch me still, in silent trust. Your lips are soft but also rough. They gently press against my skin. And I am torn, because I want—I want to put my mouth on yours. I want to make your breath my own, to taste your tongue, to feel your teeth. But I also think it might be best to let you speak, to know it’s fine. That your quickening pulse is in answer to mine, and that if you’re afraid, it isn’t of me.

And all the while, my knees press hard into the threadbare rug; too sharp. My hands are spread upon your skull, back down your neck, against your chest. And maybe then, you’ll say my name. Not in a warning, or even in shame. 

And maybe your knees will open to me and I’ll press myself in a space too small, as you press your thighs against my sides. And I’ll run my hands beneath your shirt, where your skin is warm and lightly furred. I could if you’ll let me. But I’d want more. I’d want to take your buttons down, and rub my face against your chest. To inhale the scent that's uniquely you, with a faint tinge of soap and a salty taste. 

I suppose at this point, if you didn’t protest—and by now I imagine you certainly would—I’d unbuckle your belt, draw it out of the loops, throw it careless behind me back into the room. And I’d like to believe that your hands won’t come down—or that, if they do, that they’ll catch in my hair—as I carefully stroke your inguinal crease, through the cloth of your jeans, as I come up for air.

And this is the place where the game becomes real. Because this is the point— above all—where I’d know. If your hips rise to meet me, your blood’s flooding in; filling spongey lacunae and that’s—

—just—

If they do, if it does...

If your skin flushes pink and your voice cracks and you haven’t seen fit to stop me by now—

if your nails rake through my hair and when I raise my head, you whisper, _It’s all fine—_

You won't. But if you did...

 

**Author's Note:**

> Recently, I was joking about the fact that I like to string my characters along, but that basically, my universe is not a tremendously slashy one. And it is generally agreed that that's a good idea. Because I don't do hearts and flowers, and I fail to fully understand the principles of flirtation. But because I'm perverse and procrastinating from the final chapter of my current work (and because I'm writing other stuff that isn't fan fiction, and really ought to broaden my horizons), I poured myself some wine and took it as a dare. Refunds issued as required. Proofread by the lightly inebriated writer.


End file.
